


partly cloudy

by hell_swan



Series: In Circles (Happy Ending Remix) [1]
Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Gen, everything is gay & some things hurt, flighty broads & the idiots that love them, referential referencing because he's not important in this particular piece, transistor canon is a hit piece on a lesbian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14415366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hell_swan/pseuds/hell_swan
Summary: This is the beginning.





	partly cloudy

**Author's Note:**

> a) i am eternally mad at Transistor  
> b) everyone deserved better than they got

It rains in the country (and Sybil refuses to think of it as anything but the _country_ , lowercase and unimportant despite how drastic a change in setting it is), and God, if that isn't a sign that things are irretrievably fucked, she doesn't know what is.

It rained in Cloudbank, of course, but never more than a scattered shower to accentuate the cobblestones of a particular street, or to give a select neighborhood a certain shine as the golden sun washed over it. Here, though, it rains like the old days - sudden downpours in the morning and long, grey afternoons that leave the ground a mess of puddles and mud waiting to destroy boots built for shopping districts. There are even thunderstorms, great booming things that force up shards of memory from Sybil's time as a mere _function,_ when she was used to shatter beasts like some kind of fairy-tale sword.

And, well, that line of thought goes where it goes, and Sybil curls up in her bay window, furiously ignoring her own tears and watching the rain fall.

-

Red leans back against his chest, luxuriating in the steady rise and fall of it, and hums. It's a blend of old songs, a medley she slips into when there's nothing squeezing her attention, and here in the Country, she's had a hundred chances to practice its smooth familiarity. He grumbles, and it's a pleased sound, one that makes Red smile as she presses into him. She can almost feel his heartbeat this way, and it's like the first uncontrolled breath after a set, all gasping and aching and _free_. It was perfect in Cloudbank, but by way of scrubbing out notes and cutting songs.

Here, Red has the full soundtrack, and she can't stop smiling.

"Someone's happy." He says, and Red sighs, the rich timbre of his voice sans synthesizer feeling like a hug. He's got his arms perched on his knees, legs folded up and hands dangling in the air as all of it brackets Red. It can't be comfortable, and she's told him so, but he insists that he likes it (and what goes unsaid is that any and every feeling is better than the half life he'd suffered through.)

"Just, enjoying this. Being here." Red says, and he snorts before pressing a kiss into her hair. They're looking out a floor to ceiling window, and a storm is raging beyond the glass, rain whipping against the house and fields that surround it. This isn't Cloudbank, so Red knows it extends further, beyond her range and the fences that mark this patch of Country as hers.

"You'll have to talk to her sometime." He says, and Red sighs, knowing that this was coming the moment he'd asked if they could watch the weather pass. They try romance, every now and then, but it's like joining shards of broken glass from two different windows. He hums a few bars, out of tune, and says "she wants to apologize."

"I don't want to forgive her." Red says, and she's a liar as much as anything else in that moment, because it's one of the two things she wants most from this new life. The second can only come after the first, and the first requires Red to seek her out, because Sybil still won't go out of her way to talk to anyone who tries the hospitality of her front door. Red's train of thought usually stops there, and then she doubles back to being furious and betrayed.

"You don't want to stop being angry." He says, flexing his bare, unwrapped hands before continuing, "there's a difference."

"Shut up." Red says, knocking the back of her head against his chest, getting an exaggerated grunt of pain for the effort. Then, chewing on her bottom lip, she says "I hate it when you're right. _God_ , how do I even start that conversation, she's just, she's so -"

"She's Sybil. You'd be better off with a cat." He says, and there's a trace of bitterness under his amusement, but they're also only a few days past their last attempt at _together_. He's stalwart and kind and understanding but he's also human, and Red won't push on the sore spot. "Take it one step at a time. Find your feet. Or whatever it is a flighty broad like you does before a big show."

Red squawks and elbows him in the ribs, and he snaps into action, arms wrapping around her middle while he stands up effortlessly. She forgets about how he spent his time before he met her, until moments like this: Red laughing and kicking her feet, him holding her with a little tension and a lot of care. It makes her ache, that this can't be enough, but there will always be the Transistor between them. There will always be the blade sliding into Sybil's processed body and his voice during it, pitying and then triumphant.

So Red takes what she can get, and collapsing with him into a giggling pile on the room's couch is enough.

-

Sybil goes without her hat, now, choosing to carry it around by the brim when she hasn't had a nightmare the night before. Those occasions necessitate it being shoved into one of her house's many closets, which is a metaphor she loathes for both its implications and appropriateness. Secrecy is what got her into this complete disaster; haunting a poorly decorated and drafty house on the edge of a pine forest. The others have all tried to get Sybil to come outside, once each, and she could've been blown over by a breeze at seeing Royce on her doorstep.

As always, she recovered, and sent all three of them away with a smile and a pointed warning to not come back.

Sybil frowns and ignores the mirror in the entryway, knowing she'll only see the small lines at the corners of her mouth and the wrinkles beginning to appear on her forehead. Signs of a life well lived, her mother would have said, and the old hag can fuck _off_ , because there's still work to be done. An event organizer no longer, but still possessed by the frustrating drive to be busy. So, here she is beginning an examination of the front lawn of her house, hat in hand, humming one of Red's songs.

It's not the safety of the beach and the warmth of Red's voice, but nothing ever will be again. At least here Sybil can find a measure of peace in grimacing at the absolute state of her yard.

-

Red is standing in the field in front of Sybil's home, the sky gone patchy with dark clouds and blue sky, watching as the other woman takes in the length of grass and a pair of trees that makes up the front yard. A spark of affection catches in Red's heart at the sight, because Sybil - the real one, the one who isn't putting on a show - is perennially grumpy even at her best. Here in the Country, she's sure that's a long way off. The soft feeling is snuffed out by the sight of her hat and its ornamentation, and Red's left cold again, a well of fury within easy reach.

She takes a deep breath and lets the anger drain out with her exhale. Or at least she tries to, because the wounds Sybil left run deep, though the Transistor scars are fading with every passing day. His is almost gone, even, though it's been awhile since she saw it in full. Red's, though, it throbs in the mornings and aches in the evenings. The only thing that keeps her from turning around is the fact that she can picture what Sybil's scar must look like - the wide, uncaring largeness of it, dark and rough on the sun kissed expanse of her back.

There's not a soul here who isn't broken in some way. But to make peace with that means confronting scary things, and having conversations she'd rather put off. It means not flinching when Sybil stops humming (a song of Red's, if her ears are to be believed, and the one she wrote for the city; for her) and drops her hat into a patch of mud. It means walking down a stone lined path, to the picket fence the woman undoubtedly hates, and saying "can we talk?"


End file.
